Your consciousness from day into night does not transform with the sun or dark. It flutters in a fine period. In an unchanging state of consciousness the symmetries of the city appear to you in the confluence of objects, atmosphere, and light to play back through your lost walking hours in a carnival of assumed memories. Reminiscent rebuses of morning moments cobbled together in piecemeal mosaics begin to shake out of the failing darkness, pulses of fluorescent light, sunlit cigarette butts in the sand, stained tissues folded into quarters on a window sill in milky light, the slick surfaces that shine cold against your warm wet hair. You are weighed by repetition. Again the freshly bathed dusk grog begins the night as the day ended and you swim into the detritus of the day in reverse, floating to the surface in the dark alcove on the moisture borne lights from the courtyard.